


5-Hydroxytryptamine

by kashuurii



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Psychology, Vikturio, all other ships are minor, high school & college AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 05:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9974054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashuurii/pseuds/kashuurii
Summary: “Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuri begins, his teeth gritted and face flushed. “Will you date me? It’s for science.”





	1. Yuri Plisetsky Hates Psychology

* * *

 

In a seat by the window, at the back of a classroom, on the first floor of the science block, in a high school situated in the heart of St. Petersburg, Yuri Plisetsky is about to let loose an ear-piercing, window-shattering, guttural scream at his teacher.

Being in the second year of his high school career, it’s unsurprising that he’d have to face projects like this which include in-depth research and hypotheses which all end up proven completely wrong.

The boy’s made quite the smart (stupid) decision of choosing to study psychology in greater detail for the remainder of his time at his shitty school, and it’s only just occurring to him now, as he stares at the presentation on the board outlining what he has to do in order to achieve a passing grade, that _maybe_ , just _maybe_ he should’ve picked an easier subject.

Like business.

Or drama.

Or fucking food technology, how about that.

At least in cooking class you don’t have to research dumbass topics like the correlation between certain actions and serotonin levels in the brain.

That’s the topic that’s been given to him. Yuri looks around the room, glaring daggers at his classmates who’d gotten things like _the effect of testosterone on aggression_ and _the nature-nurture debate of phobias_. Lucky assholes.

“How the hell am I supposed to test for something like _this_?” Yuri complains loudly, in the hopes that his incompetent teacher (who is currently sitting at his desk with his feet up) will hear him and call the entire project off.

Next to him, Otabek Altin nudges the blond’s shoulder lightly. “It’s not good to get so worked up over a project. Is it that bad?”

“They’re asking me to do some university level crap, who do they think I am?” Yuri retorts, pointing at the instructions on the board that tell him very clearly to show his results with the proper methods of research.

“University level? It can’t be that hard, can it?” Otabek frowns, leaning forwards to peer at the task given to the other.

A diligent and hardworking boy, Yuri’s best friend has also received a difficult topic - to investigate the relationship between maternal postpartum depression and brain function in six-month-old infants. “Well, it would be kind of hard to measure serotonin levels without the proper equipment. Can’t you ask for help from anyone?”

“Like who? Our teacher is bullshit, our classmates are bullshit, and our equipment is probably limited to diluted hydrochloric acid and a beaker,” Yuri complains, kicking the desk in front of him as the bell rings to signify the end of the class.

  
He’s still agitated as he shoves all the things he’d gotten out at the start of the lesson (which consisted of a pencil and a pack of gum) and stands up, grumbling to himself about how shitty the subject is in a manner that can only be described as _bitching_.

Slamming his locker open, Yuri yanks his next-to-new maths textbook (as he’s never actually opened it, ever) for his next class out and drops it into his bag, ignoring all the disgruntled stares from the other students around him.

 _Sucks to be me, right?_ he thinks, as he turns the corner and slams straight into a man holding a couple of books.

Dazed, Yuri gets to his feet quickly, brushing himself off and getting ready to utter a string of swears as he stares at the guy on the floor picking up his books.

“Watch where you’re going, dumbass,” he hisses, as the mystery man stands up, and it’s now where the Russian realises that he’s probably quite outmatched.

The guy standing in front of him is at least a good hundred-and-eighty centimetres tall, making Yuri look like an ant adjacent to a skyscraper.

He’s got this weirdly platinum, almost-silver blonde hair that doesn’t appear to be bleached (seriously, what kind of person inherits this kind of hair?) and hidden behind glasses; these blue eyes that somehow make Yuri want to punch a wall.

Was he some new kid around? He’s got to be at least twenty, though; maybe an alumni?

Somehow, the image of his face is ringing a million and one alarm bells in his head. Where has he seen this guy before?

Without a second thought, Yuri whirls around on his heel and makes a beeline straight for his classroom, not wishing to dabble around in unchartered territory.

It’s the first time he’s been so enthusiastic to go to maths.

While the teacher’s explaining something about asymptotes and graphs, Yuri’s busy furiously texting away underneath the table, fingers flying across the screen discreetly as the professor’s droning voice in the background fades to white noise around him.

 

**[ 12:35 ] yuri-plisetsky: beka im serious**

**[ 12:35 ] yuri-plisetsky: what the hell am i supposed to do about my project**

**[ 12:36 ] yuri-plisetsky: its so hard to investigate especially without like a lab or something**

**[ 12:38 ] otabek-altin: I know. I’m struggling too.**

**[ 12:38 ] yuri-plisetsky: you dont seem like ur worrying at all**

**[ 12:39 ] otabek-altin: I actually have an idea that could help both of us.**

**[ 12:39 ] otabek-altin: I was going to tell you in person, but you seem like you’re going mad.**

**[ 12:40 ] yuri-plisetsky: I AM GOING MAD**

**[ 12:40 ] yuri-plisetsky: but ok shoot**

**[ 12:42 ] otabek-altin: I actually have an acquaintance who’s studying psychology as a university major.**

**[ 12:42 ] yuri-plisetsky: ew who does that**

**[ 12:43 ] otabek-altin: Hear me out.**

**[ 12:43 ] otabek-altin: He says that his professor is one of the best in the city, if not the entirety of Russia.**

**[ 12:44 ] otabek-altin: Apparently he graduated from Harvard or Yale or something.**

**[ 12:44 ] yuri-plisetsky: holy shit**

**[ 12:44 ] yuri-plisetsky: and ur saying we can go talk to him and ask him for guidance or some shit??????**

**[ 12:45 ] yuri-plisetsky: will we have to pay an entry fee just to see him????????**

**[ 12:46 ] otabek-altin: Let’s just go introduce ourselves today and see if we can work anything out.**

**[ 12:47 ] otabek-altin: He teaches at the college twenty minutes away from here. Come with me after school?**

**[ 12:47 ] yuri-plisetsky: hell fucking yeah**

**[ 12:47 ] yuri-plisetsky: beka ur a godsend**

**[ 12:48 ] otabek-altin: Your appreciation is much appreciated.**

**[ 12:49 ] otabek-altin: Focus on your work, Yura. I just passed your room on my way to the toilet and you’re still playing on your phone.**

**[ 12:50 ] yuri-plisetsky: fuck you clash royale is more important**

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you sure we’re allowed to see this guy?” Yuri chatters to Otabek as they make their way out of the metro station and towards the large, towering structure in front of them.

It’s an incredibly prestigious university, mainly inclined towards the study of human sciences, and walking into the huge, arching entrance of the building, the high school student feels incredibly out of place, with his black and leopard-printed hoodie making him stick out like a dog’s balls.

Sometimes, Yuri enters opulent, illustrious complexes such as these and wishes he could attend them in the future.

He’s by no means wealthy - with only his grandfather to raise him in such a big city, there’s no way he would be able to garner the financial support for the college’s fees.

He doesn’t think he can aim for a scholarship either; because that’s for people who actually possess some sort of academic talent. Which doesn’t include him.

Otabek nods, folding his hands as they follow an assistant to the office of this famed professor. “I booked an appointment with him for five. We’re expected, so there’s no backing out now.”

“Damn, you got me,” Yuri mumbles, sticking his tongue out. He’s suddenly not feeling too well; Yuri was never good with social situations and meeting new people, let alone people of significance.

  
As they walk along the long, winding hallways decorated with lavish portraits of Sigmund Freud and René Descartes, Yuri decides to shut up for a while and trail behind his friend.

They seem to have been walking for an eternity and a half now, and when they finally approach the large door that somehow reminded him of Dumbledore’s office from the Harry Potter series, the Russian’s legs feel as if they’ve just carried him across the world on two feet.

A knock on the door, a cheerily called, “Come in!”, and a shove of the lacquered wooden entrance lead the two students into the even grander office, where a plethora of books surround a single mahogany desk with a nameplate plastered across the front, and where the main objective of the excursion resided.  


There stood Viktor Nikiforov, established professor with a doctorate in Psychology, tall and proud in all his six-foot glory with an encyclopaedia laid open in his hands, and it is _now_ that Yuri remembers where he knows this man from.

The man he had so rudely bumped into back at school a few hours ago, and told to “watch where he’s going, dumbass” (god, Yuri can just crawl into a hole now and die) was not a complete stranger at all.

Fleeting memories of his childhood back in a small town in Novosibirsk show Viktor laughing and tugging Yuri along, as they glide across the frozen lake on shabby skates.

Viktor tugging at Yuri’s cheek as the sixteen-year-old, with long hair back then, shovelled spoonfuls of hot borscht into the four-year-old’s mouth and giggling as drops of the stew spattered around his lips.

Viktor with Yuri in his lap by the fireplace, reading him a Russian fairytale as the hearth crackles beside them.  


Just his fucking luck.

  
Fortunately, for the time being, Viktor doesn’t seem to recognise him; not from earlier, not from his childhood. Yuri quickly decides it’s a good thing, and opens his mouth, attempting to force out any words or phrases that aren’t _why the fuck are you here_ and _please don’t kill me for snapping at you back then in the halls_.

Luckily for him, Otabek seems to have sensed the slight shift in atmosphere (bless the boy, seriously), and takes the initiative to make the first move.

“Apologies for the interruption, Professor Nikiforov,” he begins, while Yuri makes an effort to straighten up and nod along solemnly, ignoring the lump in his throat that’s growing more painful by the moment. “The two of us are students currently studying psychology in high school, and we would like to request-”

“Now, now. There’s no need to be so formal.”

Viktor’s voice startles Yuri into jumping slightly where he stands, and he looks up at the renowned professor, meeting his eyes in the first place.

Instantly, it’s like a bolt of electricity sent from the gods has struck him headfirst, sending unpleasant, painful shivers down his back.

Yuri doesn’t remember his jawline becoming so defined, and his eyes so sharp, and his fashion sense _so incredibly outdated_.

Viktor’s wearing a vest over a pinstriped blouse, trousers that resembled the colour of compost, and to top it all off, a trench coat that makes him look like a knockoff John Watson. (Dear lord, somebody help him.)

“You boys look so stiff,” Viktor remarks, putting down his book and pushing off the edge of the desk he had been half-sitting, half-leaning on to approach the pair. “I’m not _that_ scary, am I?”

Yuri swallows.

Beside him, Otabek clears his throat. “No, sir.”

“Mr. N is fine, Otabek,” Viktor corrects, before glancing at Yuri, and the blonde swears he didn’t flinch. Not in the slightest. “Assuming you’re Otabek Altin, the one who sent the email to me.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Otabek.” Viktor offers his hand to Yuri’s friend, and they exchange a short but firm handshake, before the professor turns to Yuri. “And you are?”

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Yuri answers a little too quickly, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.

Instantaneously, the kind and carefree look in Viktor’s eyes shifts suddenly, into a look that Yuri can’t quite decipher, before returning to its original gleam, and the high school student looks away, praying to every single deity he could think of off the top of his head to _just end him already before Viktor does_.

“Ah, Yuri,” the man muses, extending his hand for Yuri to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Yuri takes Viktor’s hand in his own slightly clammier one, and looks at his friend, as if prompting him to ask about the original reason for coming here.

Otabek clears his throat again. “Mr. N, Yuri and I have a psychology project that is worth forty percent of our final grade due in two and a half months. The topic assigned to me was to investigate the link between postpartum depression and brain function in babies, while Yuri’s was to investigate the link between...”

“Certain actions and serotonin levels in the brain,” Yuri fills in, as Otabek shoots him a thankful glance. “The problem with our assignments is that they’re kind of difficult to analyse, so we were hoping you’d be able to help.”

Viktor arches an eyebrow. “Interesting topics indeed. I can see why you chose to ask for help.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. _No shit._

“Well,” Viktor turns around again, lifting a finger to his lips in a thinking stance. “As it so happens, Otabek, one of my colleagues teaching at this institute has just given birth to a wonderful baby boy. I suppose she would have more experience with postnatal issues, although I will need to check with her on whether she’d like to participate. Informed consent is important,” he hums, and Otabek nods.

“As for Yuri here,” Viktor looks over his shoulder at Yuri before glancing forwards again, pacing around his desk. “Measuring serotonin levels can be done with a simple platelet test to determine 5-HT synthesis in the blood. I believe your school has the equipment necessary, but in the case of the contrary, our institute can provide it.”

Yuri nods, having not really taken in all of what Viktor had said in favour of staring at his shoes.

“I guess that concludes our meeting, doesn’t it?” Viktor claps his hands together, turning around to smile at the two again. “You two may leave now.”

Yuri lets out a long and deep breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, and glances at Otabek, who nods and turns towards the door.  


Just as they’re about to leave, however, Yuri’s stopped short by another call from Viktor where he sits on his desk. “Actually, Yuri, I’d like to speak to you for a little while longer, if that’s okay.”

 _Really?_ Yuri wants to exclaim, begrudgingly turning on his heel again to face the professor. _It’s already been awkward enough!_

“Are you sure you’re gonna stay?” Otabek asks Yuri, having picked up on the tense atmosphere prior. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Yuri mutters, wishing he’d held his relieved sigh back earlier. “I’ll be out real quick, just wait in the lobby or something.”  


The door closes behind Yuri, and he lifts his gaze to meet Viktor’s, blue on green.

However, he doesn’t anticipate the other’s quick strides towards him, and only manages to take a single step back before Viktor’s arms are wrapped around him in the tightest hug imaginable.

“So, _Yurochka_ , we meet again,” Viktor breathes, warm breath tickling the hair next to Yuri’s ear, and he shivers visibly. “I knew it was you in the hallway, especially since you’ve kept your sour attitude for all these years.”

“Don’t call me that,” Yuri mumbles, stepping out of Viktor’s embrace. “Feels weird, after twelve years. Where the hell did you go?”

“Why, to study abroad, of course,” the man chuckles, gesturing at the multiple certificates and diplomas hung up around the room. “I was at the end of my high school career, just like you are nearing the end of yours. How do you think I earned the title that drew you to come to me?”

He’s right, of course, but four-year-old Yuri hadn’t understood why his babysitter and best friend had suddenly disappeared without a trace one day, never to be seen again until a decade in the future.

However, the past is the past, he decides, and turns to face Viktor again, crossing his arms.

“Good thing you called me behind, because I’ve still got a few questions about my stupid project,” he admits, refusing to let a familiar flush cross his face. “I’ve got the means to investigate the dependant variable of the experiment, but I have no idea who to perform it on. All my classmates are all busy with their own projects, including Be- Otabek, and I don’t live with my grandpa anymore. And I can’t very well test it on myself, can I?”

Viktor taps a finger to his lips. “That’s true. I don’t suppose you’ve gained any siblings since I last saw you.”

Yuri shakes his head. “Parents left, remember? But let’s not talk about that right now.”  


Taking a deep breath, the boy takes a tentative step towards his childhood-friend-turned-prestigious-professor, refusing to drop his gaze. That would be weak, and Yuri Plisetsky is anything but a coward.

“I’d like to ask if you could be my test subject.”

As the words leave his lips, Yuri notices a familiar glint in the corner of Viktor’s eyes. One not unlike the glint he had seen prior, as they were having their conversation.

“Hmmm.” Viktor pretends to be in deep thought, although even a blind man can see the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I don’t know. Your investigation requires certain actions to be done in order to activate the synthesis of serotonin, correct? Since you’re likely to already know the effects of 5-HT, you’ll know that you’ll have to do some rather... unconventional things to trigger the release of the chemicals inside me-”

“I know, I know!” Yuri interrupts, looking away as his face heats up against his will. “Don’t say it like that, it sounds weird!”

“Would you care to rephrase your initial request, then, so I can know just exactly what I’ll have to do in order to meet the requirements of your psychology teacher?”

Yuri knows. He knows just _exactly_ what Viktor’s trying to do. _Seems like you haven’t lost your teasing nature either, huh?_

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he looks up again, staring the professor straight in the eyes, who’s got the most innocent of smiles plastered all over his face.

  
“Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuri begins, his teeth gritted and face flushed. “Will you date me? It’s for science.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you do when you're on a trip with no wifi? PLAN A DISGUSTING MULTICHAPTER FIC
> 
> edit: i set a deadline for myself to post this before/on yuri's birthday HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SON
> 
> find me on tumblr: katsukirin


	2. Yuri Plisetsky Hates Dates

* * *

 

Science.

It’s the reason species upon species of living organisms have thrived for four-and-a-half billion years. Generations upon generations of organic life have flourished under the principles of science, and one just simply cannot overlook the importance of the natural world in regards to our vitality.

It’s also the reason Yuri’s halfway from tearing his entire head of hair out from his scalp in absolute, complete ire.

He’s slumped in the middle of his modest living room, legs splayed out in between the short pegs of the coffee table and notes equally as splayed out in front of him. For the past three hours, give or take, the kid’s been trying to come up with the proper experiment guidelines and conduct procedure, but hasn’t gone a single sentence without grabbing the nearest cushion and screaming bloody murder into it.

He’s not a romantic person by all means - with every Valentine’s Day that passes, his hatred for people who manage to find a significant other brings another wave of irritation and stuffing himself with sale chocolate to the bleak winter month, and he’d rather die than spend an entire day awkwardly holding hands with another person. Let alone _Viktor FUCKING Nikiforov_.

The (incredibly passive-aggressive) questionnaire he’d sent out to the man yesterday by email had come back with heart emojis and kissy lips suffixing every single reply, and even just staring at the file, Yuri’s not sure just how Viktor thinks this is a document suitable for submission to his school.

Rolling his head back to rest on the couch behind him, the Russian sticks his pen into his mouth, chewing on it as he closes his eyes.

At times like this, Yuri really has no choice but to sit back and reflect on the many bad decisions he’s made to lead him to this moment. It’s almost as if he’s offended some sort of deity that’s led to this overwhelming amount of misfortune. He didn’t _ask_ to be stuck with some evil professor who just so happens to know basically his _entire past_.

The doorbell chimes ominously, and it’s all Yuri can do to call out in the flattest tone possible, “It’s unlocked, stupid,” instead of yelling it out with all the bottled-up rage in his little body.

Viktor Nikiforov saunters in with a shit-eating grin on his face, dressed like an eighty-year-old man _yet again_. Yuri hopes that today, on their first date, he’ll be able to convince the other to _buy better clothes for the love of Jesus Christ and all that is good in the world_.

“I thought you’d be ready by now,” Viktor says, taking a seat on Yuri’s modest couch atop his papers and crinkling them with his ass. “It’s almost three in the afternoon.”

“Some of us actually have to be productive,” Yuri mutters under his breath, reaching for the sheets and tugging lightly in fear of ripping the thin paper. “Get it in your mind that this isn’t an actual date, but an experiment.”

Viktor waves his hand lazily, batting away at Yuri’s irritated words. “Is this your first date, Yuri? You never seemed too popular with the girls, and-”

“Be quiet,” Yuri interrupts, his typing speed increasing tenfold as he fights to remain calm. “Just, like, go get some tea for a few minutes while I finish off this worksheet.”

Viktor ends up doing exactly the opposite, as he comes closer to settle down right behind where Yuri’s sitting with his back resting against the bottom of the sofa and legs sprawled out across the floor. “You forgot to include informed consent,” he mentions idly, fingers playing with Yuri’s semi-long hair.

Yuri pushes the weight of Viktor’s arm off his body. “I was gonna include that later,” he grumbles, quickly typing up the information he’s missed while hating how he’s just allowed Viktor to get the better of him. Not happening again.

Viktor hums. “Of course you were.”

Standing up, Yuri goes over towards the printer to retrieve his freshly-printed worksheets to be filled in later, before grabbing his phone, wallet and keys. “Let’s just get this over with,” he gripes, slipping a sweater over his head and tugging his boots on.

Viktor just smiles, and holds out his hand expectantly.

“Fucking _no_ , Viktor, I’m not holding your hand!”

 

* * *

 

The first thing on Yuri’s procedure list is, funnily enough, to hold Viktor’s hand.

Their fingers are intertwined uncomfortably tightly, his smaller hand encased in Viktor’s larger one. Yuri’s just glad the glances thrown their way don’t appear to be ones of disgust or intolerance, just mild confusion and generally the acceptance that Viktor and Yuri are simply brothers.

Occasionally, he has to remind himself that it’s not _him_ that’s being experimented on, and that Viktor is his subject; nothing more, nothing less.

Brushing off the snow that’s accumulated on the hood of his coat, Yuri glances up nonchalantly at Viktor, who’s whistling an off-tune melody that reminds him vaguely of some godforsaken American pop song.

“Can you stop that?,” he asks, disgruntled. “It’s annoying.”

Viktor begins to whistle louder.

Yuri’s got the right mind to just call off his entire experiment by now, and just hand in a blank sheet of paper. The failing grade on his report would be like child’s play compared to the extensive mortification he’s currently experiencing. Images of Viktor teasing him; tormenting him; subjecting poor little Plisetsky to his boggling mind games fill his head, and it’s only with a sharp tug of his arm that Yuri just manages to avoid clashing with a pedestrian.

“What’s on your mind, Yuri?” Viktor inquires, squeezing his hand briefly with that annoyingly serene smile still on his face as he leads a fuming Yuri away from the disgruntled passerby.

 _I just wish it wasn’t you_.

They enter a small coffee shop, where the two of them had originally planned to wait at for a brief period of time before heading to the nearest Soviet museum to stare at Stalin’s tanks and talk about communism. Classic Russian date.

Yuri orders a chai latte with six extra shots of espresso, because god knows if anything possibly keep him awake throughout the rest of this hellish day without the guidance of stimulants. Viktor just asks for some hot chocolate, and merely laughs with that stupid airy chuckle of his at the barista’s incredulous expression.

As they sit down, Viktor takes the initiative and seizes the chance to reconcile with his long-lost friend, deciding to reminisce about previously shared memories.

“Remember that time when you fell into the frozen lake?” he cheerily mentions, smiling that _same fucking smile he always has on his fucking face when he’s staring at Yuri_ . “You were only three then, poor thing. I had to get your _dedushka_ to fish you out of the-”

“Yes, I fucking remember, all right,” Yuri all but snaps, taking a long and angry sip of his drink and trying not to let his facial expressions betray his distaste for the bleach-tasting drink in front of him. “I had pneumonia for _three weeks_.”

“Shouldn’t have been so nosy about the lake.”

“Weren’t _you_ the one entrusted with my safety?”

“It’s hard to keep track of such a tumultuous child; especially one which throws a tantrum every five minutes.”

“Whatever.” Yuri chooses to continue drinking his coffee with an inordinate amount of pain, the sour look on his face not unlike the look he’d been sporting when he’d first asked Viktor to be his test subject. If the other had noticed his state of suffering, Yuri’s thankful that he hasn’t brought it up to tease him. Yet.

As time passes, and more memories are brought up (albeit ones considered more pleasant this time), Yuri, surprisingly, finds himself relaxing more and more; his salty expression only making a reappearance once every five minutes as opposed to five seconds. Listening to Viktor’s voice again is calming - it reminds him of when they used to read bedtime stories together in the small bed Yuri’s grandfather had allocated them during sleepovers. Of course, time and puberty has done much to change the pitch and intonation of both of their voices, but not once has the warm tone dissipated from Viktor’s soothing words. It’s why he doesn’t interrupt as Viktor moves on to speak about his life abroad, instead choosing to listen intently as he attempts to nonchalantly down the rest of his antifreeze-and-cyanide latte.

Yuri is just about to admit (to himself, of course) that _hey, maybe this ‘date’ won’t be too bad after all_ , when the other abruptly stands up, reclaiming Yuri’s hand in his own, and announces loudly, “Reminds me! I wanted to take you to the rink!”

 

If there’s one thing Yuri Plisetsky cannot do, it is keeping his balance on anything that isn’t solid ground. He’d learned this the hard way; firstly on the aforementioned frozen pond as a child, then on the streets of St. Petersburg as an edgy kid trying to skateboard like everybody else.

He’s struggling a lot more than the other people gliding over the artificial rink around him, his feeble legs shaking as he clings to the wall and tries to keep himself upright. Viktor hasn’t even gotten this far; he’s still trying to lace up his skates, the clumsy asshole, Yuri thinks as he pushes himself out a little in a sudden burst of courage - and promptly ends up slipping and falling on his ass.

 _This is not what the Russian Tiger has been reduced to_ , Yuri repeats to himself as he brushes away a passerby’s hand roughly and tries to stand up on his own, crawling towards the walls of the rink as he realises a one-man effort is futile.

“I see you’re doing well.” Viktor’s voice wavers slightly as he places one boot onto the ice, and it’s then that Yuri realises that maybe agreeing to go skating with somebody who _didn’t know how to skate_ while _he himself didn’t know how to skate either_ was not the best idea he could have possible come up with.

“Shut up, it’s not like you’re doing any better,” Yuri retorts, finally managing to push himself into a wobbly but upright standing position. “It’s been years and you still haven’t learnt how to skate properly?”

“No, and apparently you haven’t either,” Viktor comments, as the two of them bicker back and forth while edging slowly around the rink.

It’s cold; colder than Yuri had expected when he put his jacket down in one of the rental lockers outside, and he’s feeling the repercussions pretty fucking hard as he picks himself back up and off the cold, hard and _wet_ ice for the nth time.

“Yura’s got a wet spot down the back of his pants,” Viktor teases, and Yuri whips around to check, nearly losing his balance and slipping yet again.

He’s right - there’s a huge, wet stain spreading across the back of his jeans, and Yuri quickly presses his back against the nearest available wall on the rink, looking around for an escape route. “Get me outta here,” he hisses in the most menacing tone he can possibly muster, his cheeks flaring up at the implications in which others would most definitely impose upon him.

With a kick of his skates, Viktor pushes off and onwards and away from Yuri, leaving him in the dust (ice) and laughing his head off.

 

* * *

 

It’s late now; around seven in the evening, and Yuri’s quite surprised at just how much time had passed while they were dicking around on the ice. He’d learnt to stumble shakily across the rink for a maximum of ten seconds without collapsing (a personal victory, if he did say so himself), and now the physical activity was over, now came the mental workout.

As they sit down at some tacky European restaurant, Yuri commends himself for spending four consecutive hours with the most irritating twenty-eight-year-old man on the surface of the earth, and braces himself for the next (and hopefully last) hour. This is where, if he’s correct in his predictions, the deep talk will begin.

“So, how’s school?” Viktor asks, as if he isn’t part of the very project they’re about to discuss. He’s almost forgotten completely about the experiment; his focus being drawn away by the events of the day.

“I dunno, it’s alright,” Yuri replies absentmindedly, staring down intently at his plate as if it were an exhibit of exquisite minimalist art. “I mean, psych sucks ass, since I have to do all this now.”

Viktor hums, seemingly unfazed by the underlying distaste directed at him. “Don’t you think it brought us together, though? We’ve been separated for over a decade; of course our reunion had to be something as cheesy as a _daaaaate._ ” Viktor puts unnecessary emphasis on the last word, and Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, just get the food.”

They place their orders, and Yuri’s less than surprised that their orders turn out to be exactly the same - same appetizer, same main course, even the same dessert. _Stop copying me,_ is what he’d like to say, but he soon finds that their similar tastes are not due to a glorified form of plagiarism, but just the result of old habits.

“Hey, I didn’t know you still liked _shashlyk_ ,” Viktor teases, picking up one of the shish kebabs and offering it to Yuri, who takes it with a scowl on his face.

“I don’t. It’s just that I need to ‘trigger the release of chemicals within you’ in order to move my shitty experiment along, and you’re not helping at all.”

“Alright, _Yurochka_.”

Yuri’s two years short of the legal drinking age in Russia, but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking a few sips of Viktor’s champagne, and he’ll be damned by the Russian Tiger himself if he tries to stop him. He’s actually having quite the time of his life, watching the angry kid loosen up a little with his ever-so-slightly flushed face staring right back at him.

They eat in an admittedly comfortable silence, with the occasional quip from Viktor and the immediate, indignant response from Yuri as the night goes on, and by God, he’s not about to admit that the day hadn’t actually gone that bad as they chat amongst the ambient atmosphere. Not at all. Terrible day.

“So, Yuri,” Viktor says as they walk back towards Yuri’s apartment from the restaurant a few blocks away, his arm wrapped loosely around the other’s shoulders. “I know we’ve been having the time of our lives today on this date, but aren’t you forgetting a little something?”

“What could I possibly have forgotten?” Yuri snaps back, a little too defensive.

“Wasn’t the objective of this expedition to investigate? Or have you been too caught up in the fun you’ve been having?” he laughs, his hand squeezing the younger’s shoulder lightly, and Yuri’s about to punch another wall because _there were definitely no heart palpitations going on there._

“I was gonna do them tomorrow!” Yuri tries to backtrack, shoving his hands into his pockets sharply. Of course he’d forgotten the entire folder of papers at home.

“Sure you were.”

As they near the complex, turning the last bend to reach the front entrance, Viktor nudges Yuri ever so slightly, a small mischievous grin playing upon his lips. “Hey, Yuri, wanna hear something?”

“What.”

“Do you want to be hydroxytrypta- _mine_?”

Yuri shoves the arm around his shoulder off, and flips the magic finger at Viktor, walking away and into the building. “Serotone-it down, asshole.”

Good thing he’s got his back to said asshole, as a warm, blossoming feeling in his chest bubbles up and lights up the smallest of smiles on his lips.

 

**[ 21:55 ] yuri-plisetsky: you better be here at 9am on the dot**

**[ 21:55 ] yuri-plisetsky: or suffer**

**[ 21:56 ] v-nikiforov: Wouldn’t miss it for the world ♡**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> postpones updating for nearly a month because i hate myself EXPECT MORE SCIENCE PUNS
> 
> comments and kudos etc. are always appreciated!
> 
> find me on tumblr: katsukirin


End file.
